6/25
Here we are tied up in Cobh, a beautiful town outside of Cork, one of the largest cities in Ireland. The ship is docked alongside the same quay where the final passengers loaded the Titanic nearly a century ago. As we sailed into the harbo(u)r under full canvas, crossing between two forts left over from the world war, and along the waterfront of the town nestled into the hillside, the bell tower of the immense cathedral chimed four, and people lined the docks, waving and cheering. Ireland really has been a bit of a dreamland stop.
We had a great time in out first port, Baltimore. Our stay was extended a few extra days because a gale stopped by, reaching a force 9, but it gave us some more time for getting the ship into sparkling shape, and getting familiar with the locals. Someone dug out a newspaper clipping from the Picton Castle’s past life reporting that she had ducked into this very same harbor so many years ago to weather a storm, and others told about family members who had sailed in her in those days of trawling and freighting. Our final two nights in Baltimore we were cozied up in Bushes bar with guitars and drums, fiddles and accordions, singing old tunes and falling into that sublime warmth that so often comes with good friends.
6/26
I think yesterday might have been one of the best days I’ve had in a very long time – and I’ve had some unbelievable days lately. I rented a hotel room on a hill facing out onto the cathedral and over the harbor, and woke up this morning slowly in my great big bed, the sunshine coming over me and church bells ringing. Then it was a walk into town for a nice Irish breakfast, a stop in to pick up my clean laundry, and a train ride into Cork to hang out with Mike, Susie, and Chris.
In Cork we ducked into a dingy pub that was plastered with old movie and concert posters, and bills for local acts all over. The downstairs area was all booths and tables, pretty generic seating options, but the upstairs was old dining room tables, dentists’ chairs, lawn furniture, and all sorts of ways to sit. There were more of the music posters all with names revealing this place as a familiar home of good times and cool scenes.
From there I wandered off by myself and into a music shop and pretended for a while that I was going to buy an instrument. I looked at accordions, guitars, banjos, and mandolins, and then said to the woman behind the counter, “Now what I really want is a melodica,” (which is true). They didn’t have any, and I doubt I would’ve bought one anyhow, but it was fun to look and play all the nice guitars.
We headed into downtown and found a Mexican restaurant. It felt a bit strange being in a Mexican restaurant in Ireland, but it appealed to us, so we went on in. It was pretty good, though it was definitely not like most places back in the states. Margaritas were eight Euros, and about as many ounces as well. The jalapenos were hot though, so I was happy anyways.
The next stop for us was the old Jameson distillery in Midleton, just a short cab ride from Cork. They had been distilling the famous Irish whiskey there in the old casks and copper pot stills for generations, before moving to more modern facilities in 1975. Besides an over-the-top cheese ball video at the beginning, the tour was great. The distillery was a stone compound of buildings looking like they could have doubled as a military base if needed. The mill stones and most of the power in the facility were driven by a massive water wheel, 22 feet in diameter.
One of the things that distinguishes Irish whiskey from other whiskies is the distillation process, Irish whiskey being distilled three times, Scotch twice, and American once, and the first stage pot-still at the old Jameson distillery is the largest one in the world. At the end of the tour was a taste testing where the guide provided us with a sample of Jameson’s generic seven year-old brew, Johnnie Walker Black Label Scotch, and Jack Daniels’ American whiskey. This was followed with the obligatory, “Which do you like best?” To which we responded with the obligatory, “Jameson, of course.” We then were bestowed with whisky tasting certificates. It’s rewarding to finally be officially recognized.
At our table we sat with the pilot, co-pilot, and stewardess of the private plane owned by Jay-Z, who is touring Europe right now. They assured us that Jay-Z and Beyonce are very nice, down to earth people.
That evening back in Cobh we went to a nice little restaurant for dinner, and, guitar in hand, hiked up past the cathedral to a fantastic little Irish pub called the Roaring Donkey where there was the promise of live music. The band was there and, after some encouragement from my peers and a pint, I picked up my guitar and asked if I could join in. They invited me into their session, and I achieved instant nirvana, spending the rest of the night in that cozy Irish pub, playing Irish tunes with an Irish band, guitars, flutes, banjo, bodhran, and some weird elbow-bag-pipe-thing, all with a stupid grin plastered across my face, and every so often a hand would reach over and put a fresh pint in front of me. When the banjo player started the first measures of one of my favorite tunes, “Dirty Old Town,” my euphoria spiked and I just laughed and sang and at that moment was as happy as I think might be possible.
And I even got to impress them, which was a nice surprise, because they were a legitimate band and very good musicians. But they asked me if I knew any songs, and I said I did and played “I Will Follow You Into the Dark,” by Death Cab for Cutie, and they all cheered and asked what the song was and said it was lovely. We played all night long (Irish songs aren’t too difficult to strum along with on guitar, just three or four or five different chords), until finally the place was nearly deserted, and I was sitting in the corner by myself, strumming and humming away. The bartender sat down next to me and said smiling, “Please, son, you need to leave now.” Last night will always be one of my favorite memories.
6/27
Bound for Falmouth, UK. Thick fog. 188 miles away. Should be there tomorrow night.
6/30
Arrived in Falmouth safe and sound. I’ve been on duty pretty much since our arrival and haven’t really had a chance to explore the town yet, but it is a town rich in square rigger history. This is where ships would come for orders after picking up cargo in Australia. Falmouth for orders, as they said in those days. Ships would come to Falmouth, drop anchor, and a pilot boat would cruise out and deliver word from the company as to which port the ship would find the best prices for their cargo. Picton Castle most likely has been here many times before, but this is her first time here as a barque, and her first time here as a part of those famous lines.
As we sailed in onto the hook, we were escorted by the Matthew, a replica of John Cabot’s ship. She shot her guns and we tooted our horn, and locals were buzzing around in boats of their own as well. It was a cheery little impromptu parade we had.
Here we are tied up in Cobh, a beautiful town outside of Cork, one of the largest cities in Ireland. The ship is docked alongside the same quay where the final passengers loaded the Titanic nearly a century ago. As we sailed into the harbo(u)r under full canvas, crossing between two forts left over from the world war, and along the waterfront of the town nestled into the hillside, the bell tower of the immense cathedral chimed four, and people lined the docks, waving and cheering. Ireland really has been a bit of a dreamland stop.
We had a great time in out first port, Baltimore. Our stay was extended a few extra days because a gale stopped by, reaching a force 9, but it gave us some more time for getting the ship into sparkling shape, and getting familiar with the locals. Someone dug out a newspaper clipping from the Picton Castle’s past life reporting that she had ducked into this very same harbor so many years ago to weather a storm, and others told about family members who had sailed in her in those days of trawling and freighting. Our final two nights in Baltimore we were cozied up in Bushes bar with guitars and drums, fiddles and accordions, singing old tunes and falling into that sublime warmth that so often comes with good friends.
6/26
I think yesterday might have been one of the best days I’ve had in a very long time – and I’ve had some unbelievable days lately. I rented a hotel room on a hill facing out onto the cathedral and over the harbor, and woke up this morning slowly in my great big bed, the sunshine coming over me and church bells ringing. Then it was a walk into town for a nice Irish breakfast, a stop in to pick up my clean laundry, and a train ride into Cork to hang out with Mike, Susie, and Chris.
In Cork we ducked into a dingy pub that was plastered with old movie and concert posters, and bills for local acts all over. The downstairs area was all booths and tables, pretty generic seating options, but the upstairs was old dining room tables, dentists’ chairs, lawn furniture, and all sorts of ways to sit. There were more of the music posters all with names revealing this place as a familiar home of good times and cool scenes.
From there I wandered off by myself and into a music shop and pretended for a while that I was going to buy an instrument. I looked at accordions, guitars, banjos, and mandolins, and then said to the woman behind the counter, “Now what I really want is a melodica,” (which is true). They didn’t have any, and I doubt I would’ve bought one anyhow, but it was fun to look and play all the nice guitars.
We headed into downtown and found a Mexican restaurant. It felt a bit strange being in a Mexican restaurant in Ireland, but it appealed to us, so we went on in. It was pretty good, though it was definitely not like most places back in the states. Margaritas were eight Euros, and about as many ounces as well. The jalapenos were hot though, so I was happy anyways.
The next stop for us was the old Jameson distillery in Midleton, just a short cab ride from Cork. They had been distilling the famous Irish whiskey there in the old casks and copper pot stills for generations, before moving to more modern facilities in 1975. Besides an over-the-top cheese ball video at the beginning, the tour was great. The distillery was a stone compound of buildings looking like they could have doubled as a military base if needed. The mill stones and most of the power in the facility were driven by a massive water wheel, 22 feet in diameter.
One of the things that distinguishes Irish whiskey from other whiskies is the distillation process, Irish whiskey being distilled three times, Scotch twice, and American once, and the first stage pot-still at the old Jameson distillery is the largest one in the world. At the end of the tour was a taste testing where the guide provided us with a sample of Jameson’s generic seven year-old brew, Johnnie Walker Black Label Scotch, and Jack Daniels’ American whiskey. This was followed with the obligatory, “Which do you like best?” To which we responded with the obligatory, “Jameson, of course.” We then were bestowed with whisky tasting certificates. It’s rewarding to finally be officially recognized.
At our table we sat with the pilot, co-pilot, and stewardess of the private plane owned by Jay-Z, who is touring Europe right now. They assured us that Jay-Z and Beyonce are very nice, down to earth people.
That evening back in Cobh we went to a nice little restaurant for dinner, and, guitar in hand, hiked up past the cathedral to a fantastic little Irish pub called the Roaring Donkey where there was the promise of live music. The band was there and, after some encouragement from my peers and a pint, I picked up my guitar and asked if I could join in. They invited me into their session, and I achieved instant nirvana, spending the rest of the night in that cozy Irish pub, playing Irish tunes with an Irish band, guitars, flutes, banjo, bodhran, and some weird elbow-bag-pipe-thing, all with a stupid grin plastered across my face, and every so often a hand would reach over and put a fresh pint in front of me. When the banjo player started the first measures of one of my favorite tunes, “Dirty Old Town,” my euphoria spiked and I just laughed and sang and at that moment was as happy as I think might be possible.
And I even got to impress them, which was a nice surprise, because they were a legitimate band and very good musicians. But they asked me if I knew any songs, and I said I did and played “I Will Follow You Into the Dark,” by Death Cab for Cutie, and they all cheered and asked what the song was and said it was lovely. We played all night long (Irish songs aren’t too difficult to strum along with on guitar, just three or four or five different chords), until finally the place was nearly deserted, and I was sitting in the corner by myself, strumming and humming away. The bartender sat down next to me and said smiling, “Please, son, you need to leave now.” Last night will always be one of my favorite memories.
6/27
Bound for Falmouth, UK. Thick fog. 188 miles away. Should be there tomorrow night.
6/30
Arrived in Falmouth safe and sound. I’ve been on duty pretty much since our arrival and haven’t really had a chance to explore the town yet, but it is a town rich in square rigger history. This is where ships would come for orders after picking up cargo in Australia. Falmouth for orders, as they said in those days. Ships would come to Falmouth, drop anchor, and a pilot boat would cruise out and deliver word from the company as to which port the ship would find the best prices for their cargo. Picton Castle most likely has been here many times before, but this is her first time here as a barque, and her first time here as a part of those famous lines.
As we sailed in onto the hook, we were escorted by the Matthew, a replica of John Cabot’s ship. She shot her guns and we tooted our horn, and locals were buzzing around in boats of their own as well. It was a cheery little impromptu parade we had.
7/1
Hanging out in Falmouth For Orders on my birthday. Had breakfast this morning at a little cafe tucked away in an old stone horse stall, apparently one of the oldest structures in the city. At the table next to me sat the manager and his crew, an old thin man with shaved head and big blue goatee, a tattoo of a flaming turqoise skull on his bicep. He told me about spending 1968-1971 in San Francisco, and being a roadie for Fleetwood Mac. Very friendly little place.
Tonight, for my 25th birthday, I will probably take it easy. Probably not.
Tonight, for my 25th birthday, I will probably take it easy. Probably not.
2 comments:
happy birthday ben. i love your life.
Hi, Ben! Happy 25th Birthday from the CORK-erys! Thinking of you on your big day. We check in every now and then on the W&W blog to catch up with your adventure -- a wonderful story unfolding. Glad you've made contact with Allison and that the cousins may have a chance to catch up in Europe.
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